


And Then, There Was Three

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Angst, Biblical References, Bribery, Colonization, Drug Abuse, Drug Dealing, Emotional Manipulation, Hallucinations, Organized Crime, Other, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaas believed himself somewhat safer when he abandoned the tribe. His sister. Somewhat freer. Somewhat cleaner. Somewhat stronger. In spite of that, leaving the Garden of Eden never seemed like a favorable metaphor until he stumbled upon Hoyt Volker, akin to the demonic snake of temptation, offering him the red, sweet apple of doom. Montenegro took a bite because unwanted people who have nowhere else to go often make the wrongest of decisions. The sourest of choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then, There Was Three

* * *

 

 

 

A bar, if you will.  
Smoke-riddled, crowded, shady.  
One of those places you’d rather avoid.  
Vaas remembered it clearly to this very day.  
He had stumbled inside like a man dying of thirst.

 

 

 

Hell, part of him was, in fact – after all those long weeks wondering the jungle, the wild, the woods – he knew how to survive, how to feed himself, take care of himself, hide himself – yet somehow, Citra’s banishment from the tribe made the burden of solitude, abandonment and oneness all the more difficult, all the more tiresome, all the more haunting, all the more frightening – or did he merely banish himself? He couldn’t tell – he couldn’t fathom the meaning of his unannounced presence here, mostly colonialist trash in the making – neither could the whispering, mangled, bruised, battle-hardened, armed patrons raising their hooded, guarded gazes from the opened, drool-drenched bottles of their drinks as the young, exiled Rakyat nearly stumbled inside, the stench of sweat, piss and tobacco slapping him across the face like an unwelcome tidal wave, the fall of his uneasy footsteps lost, blurred and distorted in the echo of some cheap, unbearable background tune these white, mixed crackers branded Latino – he came into the cantina for the same reason everyone else had the tendency of coming into the cantina;

 

 

 

A drink.  
A quick fuck.  
A slow breather.  
A moment of respite.  
A deal of cocaine ‘neat the table.

 

 

He never had the tendency of looking for a fight back in those days, despite of being bred for it, trained for it, prepared for it, constantly – one had to be, simply had to, if they were to survive in this goddamn hellhole of a place. The first lesson the Rakyat teach you – never put down your guard. Never. Not when you sleep. Not when you eat. Not when you bathe. Not when you fuck. Never. Vaas didn’t – not even when he ordered a round of Rum for himself from the bartender, the men seated at their respected tables eying him up rather oddly. Was it because he was a native? A different kind? Distinctive race? Probably. In the last few years they started coming in like cockroaches from all sides – whites, blacks, Thai, dipshits from every gaping anal-hole Asia, Africa and the Americas could spit back up – corsair ships, pirates, hirelings, mercenaries, the riff-raff of the whole wide world. Citra warned him against this. Citra told him a thousand times. Living on the islands for the Rakyat will no longer be safe. These individuals – these people – they came here to colonize. Not to thrive in peace.

 

 

And true it was, he begrudgingly concluded.  
As much as he loathed to admit she was absolutely right.  
People who come to thrive at peace don’t draw their knives against you.  
Not when they’re unprovoked, untouched, unaddressed, unharmed, unpoked at.  
Not when the only reason for their animosity was the color of your skin, your features.

 

 

_-“C’mon, motherfucker! Venga aquí! Show me what you got!”-_

 

 

Vaas was no fool, of course – he was the clan’s best, brightest warrior. One step away from perfection. One step away from divinity. One step away from being a living God on earth. He didn’t win Citra’s favor by being weak. By being cowardly. By being fragile. Citra tolerated everything but meekness – proof of that being when he handled half a dozen bitches all on his own, barehanded, tired, exhausted, dehydrated and starved as he was – the bar floor sprawled with beaten, bleeding, heaving bodies, the owner shouting swears at him in three languages at once, demanding that he take his sorry ass out of here lest he make more mess. Sure, they’d treat him differently – was he only paler of complexion. No use. These motherfuckers came to usurp, to play at their little Conquista – they wouldn’t leave until ever atom of culture, tradition and custom was roasted into ashes. Into dust. But, what was it to him? The only thing he had of the Rakyat now was the tribal embroiled crocodile leather wallet he pulled out a bill from in order to pay for his untasted drinks and get the fuck out of here before he bloody bashes someone’s skull in. Vaas Montengro often didn’t know his strength.

 

 

_-“It’s already covered for, mulatto! Now get your colored, inked up hide out of my establishment before I get out my rifle and blast a hole in your balls! We don’t need your kind here!”-_

 

 

The over-bloated, balding Boss of the waterhole shouted him down.  
Pulling an old, outdated piece of equipment from the back-rooms as warning.  
Turning the rusted, jet-black barrel at him and angrily pointing towards the exit.  
All his women hiding behind him in terror, only to be yelled back inside the motel.  
Covered for – really? Would they truly not accept his dough just because he was Rakyat?  
Did his money stick, did it reek, was it fake, was it filthier then anyone else’s money?  
What did they mean by “covered for”? Did someone else already pay for his drinks?  
This island was changing by the day – she was correct, she was always correct.  
Fuck that bitch and her motherfucking predictions, premonitions – fuck them!

 

 

_-“That won’t be necessary, chief. The boy was attacked. He defended himself. No harm in that, right? If it was me, I would have used a knife. Two of them. One for each hand.”-_

 

 

A voice jolted him up from his sour, bitter reverie – a sharp, hard accent he couldn’t decipher the origin of only to have his doubts confirmed when he turned and spotted a man easily a head shorter then himself. That smile. Reminded him of the white sharks he used to hunt when he was younger with the boys of the tribe. All teeth, no emotion. The red, sweaty silk of his shirt open, a golden chain, a leather jacket, slicked back hair – appeared like those rich, old Gringo bastards who visited the Pacific purely to grope little girls out on the beach - leaning in to discreetly, quietly whisper something to the owner, sliding him something that seemed like a transparent, plastic bag filled with white powder, no doubt, a bribe - nodding his head in approval through a murmur only to pat him on the shoulder in a manner way too familiar, way too friendly for Vaas’ tastes. He wasn’t used to physical contact. Not the warm, pleasant type – and this person seemed just that. Warm. Pleasant. Maybe even too much. So small, skinny and bony that Montenegro could almost imagine grabbing him by that slender, skeletal throat of his and crushing him alive on the spot. But, that stance. The way he walked. The way he carried himself. The way he merrily jumped from one place to another. This man knew how to fight – and he knew to fight well. He could recognize that much. Experience taught him a lot.

 

 

Experience helped him measure up if his opponent had any skill or not.  
Oh – and this man – this man was like a cobra – sly and slithery.  
Soundless, right before it jumps out of the grass.  
Attacks and delivers it’s deadly bite.

 

 

_-“So – that was fairly impressive back there! I do love myself a good brawl! And having a good brawl here – well, extra profitable! No authorities! No law enforcement! No feds! No police! Fucking holiday! No?”-_

 

 

The short, tan man mused.  
Semi-mocking, semi-jovial, semi-serious.  
Nearly pulling him towards his very own table.  
Separated from the crowd, riddled with bottles, cigars, cups.  
Faces Vaas didn’t know, didn’t recognize, didn’t want to get acquainted with.  
Watching in a confused daze – the way his talk-mate pranced around, seemingly happy.  
His grin spread from ear to ear – either genuinely liquor-induced or the side-effect of madness.  
Perhaps completely and utterly fake – one those three – Vaas simply couldn’t tell.

 

 

_-“There is the law of the Rakyat. Ancient. Honored.”-_

 

He managed to respond through a growl, blurted his words out before he could calculate their meaning in his own mind and prevent himself from spewing them out hastily and with too much ingrained passion – not liking the way the man and his goons underestimated the supposed lack of rules on the islands – cursing himself immediately, as soon as the sentence was uttered, reminding himself not take Citra’s side, not to take their people’s side, not to defend those who have casted him off, not to allow old routines to slip off of his tongue like venom, scorning himself internally, hating the fact that dyed-in-the-bone habits had to die so hard. He was not one of them anymore – standing for what they stood for was futile. Stupid. Unwise. Useless. The man in red gave him a look of mock-horror, raising his hand in a feigned sort of submission, his armed, grizzly associates giggling and laughing alongside their leader, leaving Vaas to wonder what he was doing at this table, except to be ridiculed, belittled and made a comical example of. This man was foreigner. His friends were foreigners. Montenegro had no business explaining his homeland’s ways to goddamn foreigners. How could they ever understand? All they understood was drugs, money, destruction and self-satisfaction. All imperialists were the same.

 

 

_-“Now, now, now, gentlemen! Gentlemen! We’re not here to make our little jungle-Rambo here mad! He could probably have us all for breakfast, ja? We all saw how he handled those awful ruffians earlier, no? Though, I doubt he could get past you – Bambi, could he now? What are you estimations – as a long-term professional, that is?”-_

 

 

The greased up buffoon turned to his co-worker.  
A robust figure, no doubt – soldierly type, a Cheshire-cat smile.  
Blue eyes and a beer bottle in his hand – one leg raised on a wooden stool.  
He appeared like the type of person Vaas knew he loathed most of all in life.  
Smug, self-proclaimed in superiority, taunting, know-it-all and white as cheese.

 

 

_-“I’d fuck ‘em, Hoyt. I like myself a nice, ethnic-themed romp and the boy has pretty eyes. Green! Hmm-hmm! Greensleves was my delight! Greensleves, my heart of gold!”-_

 

 

The tall, muscular figure nearly erupted in a musical number.  
Whistling some tune Vaas didn’t know of – pissed off all the same.  
No, not pissed off, in fact – irked, infuriated, disgusted, enraged, horrified.  
Was that what they were here for – tourists, bent of groping and molesting native children?  
He knew people like this were perverted – but, this goddamn bold, open?  
He instinctively raised a fist and grabbed the man by hem of his shirt.  
Armoured, military uniform, disheveled, drunk as a bitch.  
Vaas was ready to pound him into dust.  
The crooked man wasn’t scared,  
He was laughing his arse off.

 

 

_-“See! That’s what I like! I like my men ready for action! I like them hyper-violent! That makes for good associates! That makes for a good enterprise! That makes the business bloom! Don’t you think so, ya ghali?”-_

 

 

The man in crimson silk turned lecherously to the whore he forcefully pulled unto his lap – the young girl scared out of her mind, the blue stain around her eyes deepening in fear, nodding wordlessly as she shakily attempted to balance the beer tray on her lap, trying not to spill a single drop when she was let free and greeted off with a harsh slap on her behind – leaving a bad, bitter aftertaste in Vaas’ mouth at the prospect of such unruly treatment right along with the label of “my men”. Vaas wasn’t anyone’s man. He was done with that. He wasn’t going down that road again. He was his own man. He had served Citra’s whim’s, the elder’s ideals and his peer’s imaginations ever since he was a child. His path decided and written down for him by everyone but himself. He was told what to do. How to act. How to train. How to look. How to talk. How to behave. Who to sleep with. Who to breed with. Who to die for. He didn’t intend to be anyone’s battle stock anymore. He was no idiot. He understood very well what these cunts wanted. Exoticism. Arena-matches. Bets. Easy money of off someone else’s sweat and blood, the native boy imported star of the ring – and he was strong, in his prime, unbreakable. Of course someone was going to take advantage of that. His sister certainly tried, the sly, manipulative bitch. He trusted a thousand other cunts would do the same.

 

And this man – green-eyed devil in silk – this Hoyt person.  
He reminded him of her so much – so very much.  
Same gaze, same skin color, same words.  
Same sweet-talking, same poise.  
Almost like history was repeating itself.  
Going around and around in an endless loop.  
He ran from Citra only to stumble upon her male counterpart.  
Perhaps, everyone was her – perhaps she cast a spell on the world?  
Re-creating everyone in her very own image, in her very own mannerisms?  
Vaas was certainly tired enough to brand all of this feverish daydream – hallucination.

 

_-“I certainly do know talent when I see it. I’ve an eye for a fine breed.”-_

 

 

That man remarked, marking him up with a stare blazing like sin.  
Irises sharp, penetrating, knowing – veiled in smoke.  
The fume of the cigar between his lips.  
Cohiba – an offering.  
Asked him if he smokes.  
Vaas nearly told him to fuck off.

 

 

_-“I’m not a “breed”! Watch your words, cara de blankito!”-_

 

Vaas spat, jumping up, ready to grab the snake by the tongue and rip it out clean.

 

 

_-“White? Oh, boy – I’m as white as you are! We’re all mixed here, save for good, ol’ Bambi who considers himself a proud, freedom-loving citizen of the world! No? He’s a modern, metropolitan man with broad understandings! He doesn’t care what he fucks as long as he does! He’s equal like that! He won’t ask for your creed before he does the in and out, as they say! Also, I understand your Spanish, hijito mio! Colombia and Argentina aren’t that far apart. Do you savages have maps around here? Puedo hablar Español. No te procupes, lindito mio.”-_

 

 

The dark-maned, smiling viper cackled in searing disdain, clearly poking him, prodding him, grabbing Vaas’ by the heart with an invisible grip and squeezing past the point of endurance, obviously taking leisurely, non-chalant satisfaction in Vaas’ shock, horror, acerbic reaction – clearly knowing more then a stranger in a shady, seedy bar should after hours. Who sent him? Who told him? Was it Citra herself, wanting to taunt, torment and torture him through the past from afar? Was it his tribesmen? Was it someone else? Someone he knew? Someone he crossed? Who was it? Whenever someone brought up Argentina, the birth-place of that whoring, drunken, no-good wretch he called his father, he felt like he died a little on the inside, no matter if it was done as a negative or as a positive. Only a little – and this jackal spoke Spanish expertly, no flaws in pronunciation, no bad accents, no squeaky words. It only made Vaas’ personal predicament ache all the more. He almost wished this Hoyt, this lowly cockroach of a man handled the language badly like all pretentious outsiders usually do, purely so he could call him out on it smugly, arrogantly, use it as a contra-argument against him. But, he didn’t. The man spoke the tongue like it was his own.

 

 

_-“How do you know that!? About Argentina!?”-_

 

_-“Would it be cliched to say that I’ve my own ways?”-_

 

 

The man responded to his anger-fuelled, acerbic, hasty question with a knowing, non-chalant, relaxed chuckle – barely preventing Vaas from demanding to know if Citra coincidentally started consorting with pale-skin, washed-up strangers pop up with each and every new incoming tide in order to get back at him? If she promised them something to hound him? If she made a deal of sorts behind his back? If she spread her legs for newcomer trash just to push him even further into a state of disgust? If this was a petty, measly sort of retaliation? A scorned lover? A betrayed sister? A breeding mare denied the stallion of her choice? A bitch which didn’t get her own way, ultimately, here to spread out sensitive, private information as the last attempt at hurting him from afar – few knew about the whereabouts of his father, this certain Montenegro fellow. Where he was from. What his full name was. What his background was. Where he was now. If he was alive. If he was well. If he had another family, somewhere out there. Only Citra, he and a hand-full of tribesmen were familiar with the shady figure who did their mother the dishonor of a quick knock-up right before he sailed out, never to be seen or heard from again, in the manner of a true, full-blooded pirate. His mother, disturbed enough by the prospect of an unwanted bastard to pin upon him the name of a one-time lover, instead the maiden-name of Talugmai. 

 

 

Vaas didn’t enjoy being connected to that man. 

To any man – but himself alone.

 

 

 

_-“Families are a wretched affair, no? The word spread out the wildfire. An important figurehead in the local clans defecting. His superior casting him out. The chieftains of the natives in disarray. An honest entrepreneur minds his own jurisdiction, but he can’t help but be distracted by the – local gossip. All of it.”-_

 

 

Hoyt cooed, seemingly distracted by his own cigar.  
Playing with the sticker on the side idly.  
Pursing his lips boyishly.  
Mockery overload.  
Feigning innocence, tenderness.  
Something his associates recognized.  
Joining in with grins, giggles and cackles of their own.  
Clearly minding something – something yet unspoken, unvocalized.  
The fact that tribal affairs were so very prominent – active – energized?  
The fact that he merely hated stories circulating around – all the folksy chatter?  
Vaas couldn’t simply forbid people to speak – Vaas didn’t care to.  
If they truly spoke against him, it’s because he was an exile.  
Exiles had no place of their own, not here, not there.

 

 

 

_-“And a birdie told me you were good at what you do. Tonight, I had a chance to see it first hand. I’ve a proposition for you.”-_

 

 

_-“I’m not interested in mercenary work, hermano!”-_

 

Vaas knew to immediately cut him and his sly, gentle insinuations off before they could get out of hand, understanding very well were this was all headed – man saw muscle – man wanted to exploit muscle. Especially native muscle. Why waste your own skinny, lilly-white little boys when the colored second-class tokens could do it instead? Simple as. No more, no less. How very transparent. How very predictable. It was always the same, wherever he went, whoever he talked to - they all saw a potential bouncer, goon and enforcer in him. A replaceable commodity. A hand to wipe clean all the shit someone above him spews out daily. Citra wanted his seed for some imaginary entity she claimed the Perfect Warrior. She wanted to mate him like some goddamn, orphaned animal she picked up from the side of the road and then send him to an early grave once the deed was done because some motherfucking ritual of hers demanded it – and now this guy? Unbelievable! Vaas knew family was like an executioner’s rope-gallow tightening around one’s neck but if he expected some sort consolation, understanding and the openness to being left alone – it would certainly be at the hands of a stranger. But, they all had something they wanted to squeeze out of him. They all had some advantage they wanted to pry out from him. Each and every one of them. Mercenary work? Fuck that!

 

 

_-“Ah, no, no – what I’m offering isn’t exactly mercenary work. It’s something more then that. It would be somewhat unfitting, being your people’s finest killer to boot, only to be demoted to a mere lackey under someone else’s alliance. I’ve a sense of balance, you see. Once you reach the top, you never forget the view, my boy.”-_

 

 

This Hoyt man smiled, openly, seemingly kindly, reaching out for Vaas’ arm and patting him on the elbow in an act consisting of way too much intimacy, way too much friendliness, way too much amiability for someone who he only just met, barely half a minute ago, in a godforsaken, muddy shack of a bar on the edge of the rainy jungle perimeter – but, the words. The words. Even a goddamn stranger understood him better then his own sister. His own flesh and blood. Oh, the irony! The hilarity! Even a goddamn stranger knew better then to randomly present him with a seat unbefitting a man who was hunting, skinning and slaughtering alligators before he reached the age of fourteen. Who was climbing the roofs of ruined, overgrown, mossy temples aging a thousand fucking years and wrestling boys twice his own size down into the dust where they belong. The top, eh? His strength was being acknowledged. The man knew. His white, pale-faced goons knew. The grinning bastard with a tacky, tattooed, colorfully detailed Buck on his chest knew. They knew he was powerful. They could sense it, feel it, read it between the lines of all his scars, his wounds, his torn tissue. They understood that much. They were aware he could kill half of them before he was shot down in a desperate act of self-defense. Put down the savage before it bares it’s fangs and rips you apart. They were aware of things Citra wasn’t, the fucking, ignorant little bitch.

 

_-“The top, patrón?”-_

 

Vaas asked, seeking re-affirmation.

 

_-“The very top, hijo.”-_

 

Hoyt confirmed, eagerly, in Spanish – with that terrible tinge of familiarity.  
Why did Montenegro feel at home – welcome – wanted – needed, he couldn’t tell.

 

 

But, Volker, as he introduced himself later – gave him a special gift, explaining tenderly, like a father instructing a reckless, clumsy son on how not to drown in a shallow water pond he was sinking in, that meetings like these deserved a proper present, a proper celebration, a proper reward, if he wills – tossing him a fond, eager look as he slid him a golden tray with a neat powder stash of three horizontal lines and instructed him to try it in their distinguished company with the follow-up of a poker match he didn't understand the rules for. But, he'd get a hang of it. They were all convincing him he would eventually. An Afrikaner with a great abundance of candy, an Australian with a collection of emptied beer bottles and a native who had no clue what he was doing anymore. Colombian pure – so close to where his roots stemmed from, was up his nostrils in all it’s dazing, intoxicating glory before the night was even over. Vaas Montenegro felt like he was going to die in a stranger’s arm, right there and then. His first time, uncertain why he fell for it, why he was tempted, why he wasn’t as resilient as before. Why he wasn’t as proud. As stubborn. As arrogant. As grand as a fierce as he was when he first crossed the threshold of the cantina. Maybe, just maybe – submitting at long last to Hoyt’s promises that the pain would pass. That his sister would seem less important. That everything would recede. Subside. That he would feel like a new man tomorrow, with the first dawn on a fresh, bright morning. That he would be reborn. Like Christ on the cross after his third day of tribulation. Like a God.

 

God - a living God.  
The thing Citra promised he would be.  
The thing she denied him as soon as he stepped out of line.  
And now he could have it – he could become what he meant to be.

 

 

The silhouettes of Volker and Hughes towered above him like monsters.  
Nightmare-fuel, demons of the imagination – hollowed ink.  
Parents above their child’s rocking cradle.  
He recalled vomiting profusely.  
Maggots on his acidic tongue.  
Cockroaches in his mouth.  
The womb splitting open.  
His blurred eyesight blood-red.  
His brow covered in cold, dripping sweat.  
He must have collapsed at one point – fuck only knows.  
A pair of arms grabbing him and propping him as he crawled around.  
Hoyt’s voice, somewhere on the edge of reason, telling him what a good boy he was.


End file.
